


A Room Full Of Suicides

by monsterq



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His jaw was clenched and his whole body quivering.  He looked right at Korse with those huge, transparent eyes.  “Do what you want to me.  I don’t give a shit, Korse.”  He drew in a breath that shook.  “You wouldn’t understand.  It’s about standing up for what you believe in.”<br/>God, the kid was adorable.  Korse couldn’t wait to make him scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room Full Of Suicides

**Author's Note:**

> Written 6/23/11. More detailed warnings in end notes.

He smiled, holding the pen as if it were a weapon.

The lone light bulb screwed tightly into the ceiling cast a gleam across the dome of his hairless scalp.  It burned away shadows in the rectangular room, so white it almost glowed.  But in its location directly above Korse’s head, the light bulb threw new shadows, blacking out his eyes and casting tight, neat rectangles under the chair, and under the table at which he sat.

Korse reviewed his work, tapping the pen against his bottom lip pensively.  When he was satisfied, he ripped the sheet of paper from his notebook in one swift, efficient motion and stood, scraping the chair backwards on the polished floor. 

“Here.”  He handed it to the Draculoid standing silent in the doorway.  “I’ll need the supplies within twenty-four hours.  And ready a team for a raid.  I have new information.”  Korse paused, staring into the Draculoid’s eyes.  Whatever he saw there seemed to please him, for he gave a tight smile, nodded briefly, and commanded, “Go.”  The Drac inclined its head and left the room.

Alone now in his spotless, barely furnished chamber, the Chief Exterminator paced.  His fingers twitched compulsively at his sides.  The smile he had restrained in the Drac’s presence burst forth from him now, his mouth twisting and widening against his will.  _Control, I must have control,_ he thought, fighting the almost gleeful anticipation swelling inside him. _But I can hardly wait to see—to see_ him—

He opened his desk, the room’s only furnishing outside of the table and chair.  From it he selected a few small objects, slipping them into his coat.

Straightening himself and smoothing the smile from his face with his fingers, Korse exited the room.  His steps quickened unconsciously as he strode down the hallway, then up two flights of steps, and finally to a door that he swung open and closed quickly behind him.

Inside was the Killjoy.

Blindfolded, the man’s hands and feet were handcuffed tightly to the metal chair on which he sat.  The thin black shirt he wore was ragged and stained, his pants scuffed and well worn.  With a pleasurable tightening of his stomach, Korse observed the many dark bruises that marked his arms, the ray gun burn on his shoulder, and the trickle of dark, fresh blood seeping from underneath his blindfold.  Korse’s eyes, however, were arrested by the Killjoy’s hair.  A gaudy scarlet, it seemed to taunt him.  _Come and get me._  

Korse found, oddly, that he wanted more of that hue.  As head supervisor of BL/ind, he was as dedicated to the extermination of color as the next man.  And yet, something about that bright red hair made him bite his tongue and crave more crimson, decorating his hands and the Killjoy’s body, splashing the walls in ragged, vibrant stains.

How interesting.

The only sign that the rebel was aware of Korse’s entrance was the quick tightening of his jaw, and the way his hands flexed open and closed into fists on the arms of the chair.  He did not speak.

 “Well,” Korse murmured.  “Well.  Gerard Way.  It’s good to see you, after all these years.”

The Killjoy didn’t respond, but he tossed his head like a challenge, inadvertently baring his pale throat.  Korse took in a breath.  He drew closer.

“I would have loved to see you sooner,” he remarked.  “But you didn’t feel the same way, Gerard.  It’s such a shame.  We have so many things to talk about.”

Gerard’s tongue flicked out, running over his lips.

“Right, Gerard?” Korse inquired, moving still closer until he was leaning right over the rebel. Gerard’s breath fluttered softly over Korse’s face.  He reached out a hand, running a thumb over the Killjoy’s soft, girlishly full bottom lip.

He reacted as if Korse had slapped him, jerking back in his chair and clenching his bound hands so hard the knuckles turned white.  “Don’t you fucking touch me,” he hissed.  Korse loved that New Jersey accent.  “I’ll rip your fucking face off.  And my name isn’t Gerard.  It’s Party Poison.”

The blood was rushing hot through Korse’s body.  “Is that right, Gerard?” he murmured.  “You’ll rip my face off?  And when will you do that?  Shall I lean down so you can reach?”

Poison spat at him.  Blindfolded as he was, he missed entirely.

Korse decided this would be more interesting if he could see his eyes.  Gerard had beautiful eyes, he remembered, framed by extravagantly long lashes.  He rested a calming hand on Gerard’s shoulder, ignoring his squirming, and tugged off the blindfold.  The Killjoy blinked into the light, trying desperately to sink into the back of the chair, away from Korse.  His head jerked, and the blood running down from the gash by his eyebrow was deflected over his cheekbone.

Korse smiled at him.  “There, isn’t that better?” he asked.  “Now we can look at each other in the eyes like friends.  We are friends, right?  I’m sure you’ve missed my face; I know I’ve missed yours.  Now, let’s get down to business.  There are some things we should talk about.”

He pulled up a chair, tugged it close.  Sat leaning forward, his hand resting familiarly on Gerard’s long fingers.  The rebel tried to grab him, to scratch at him, but Korse was too quick.  He pinned Gerard’s hand down with his own, wrapping his fingers for good measure around the arm of the chair.

“Your friends,” he said, looking into Party Poison’s furious eyes.  “Out in the desert you so mysteriously choose to reside in.  Seeing as we get along so well, I’d love to meet them, too.  Would you give me some information as to their whereabouts?”

“Never,” Poison said; it was, of course, the expected answer.  Korse would have been disappointed if it were otherwise.  Still, playing a part, he sighed.  “That’s unfortunate.  It would have been so much…easier, this way.”

“Fuck you.”

Korse tilted his head, smiling sweetly.  “Oh yes?” he inquired.  His voice was suggestive, threatening.  And for the first time, Korse found what he wanted—a flicker of fear in Gerard Way’s eyes.

He patted his hand.  “No hurry, Gerard.  No hurry at all.  I’m sure we’ll get to everything.  For now, answer me something—this tragic, misdirected loyalty toward your compatriots.  Why?  I don’t see them here, do you?  Coming to help out their fearless leader?  What were they doing when you were taken?  Where’s the _rescue party_ , Gerard?”

“They’re doing what they were trained for,” Gerard said.  “If one of us gets taken, the others continue.  No fucking suicidal pointless rescue missions.  We’re not stupid.”

“I see.”  Korse tapped his chin thoughtfully.  “That’s very interesting.  I wonder if they would feel the same way if they knew about the things I’m going to do to you.  For that matter, I wonder if you would feel the same way.  What do you think?  Hmm?”

His jaw was clenched and his whole body quivering.  He looked right at Korse with those huge, transparent eyes.  “Do what you want to me.  I don’t give a shit, Korse.”  He drew in a breath that shook.  “You wouldn’t understand.  It’s about standing up for what you believe in.”

God, the kid was adorable.  Korse couldn’t wait to make him scream.

“All right,” he murmured, leaning further in until Gerard was pressed tight against the back of the chair.  He trailed a hand up his arm, over his shoulder, and along that pale, beautiful neck.  He lingered over the Adam’s apple and then traced down over his chest.  The hate and repulsion in Poison’s eyes was gorgeous, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.  “Let’s get back to business.  I believe we’re both acquainted with a certain man going by the rather amusing moniker Dr. Death-Defying?”

“You won’t get anything about him from me.”

“Is that what you think?”  Korse leaned further in, relishing the uncertainty in his captive’s wide hazel eyes.  Then he pressed his mouth hard against his.

Gerard gave a yell, muffled by Korse’s kiss.  His body bucked and squirmed against the Exterminator, who used the opportunity to slip his tongue between his captive's lips.  Gerard promptly bit down on it, hard, but Korse didn’t mind.  The pain and the fresh blood mixing with the intoxicating taste of Gerard’s mouth were only a pleasant reminder of his purpose in coming here.

He pulled back.  Gerard stared at him, breathing hard.  Every line of his body was tense, and his mouth hung open slightly.  Korse noticed the stains of blood, his blood, over the Killjoy’s swollen lips, and had to work to stop himself from filling that beautiful mouth then and there.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Gerard gasped finally.  “Is this supposed to make me _want_ to tell you or something?  Because I can tell you right now, it’s not going to work.”

“Nothing like that,” Korse said cheerfully.  “But our leader has told me that—oh, what’s the expression?—all systems are go for this case.  Meaning, I can do whatever I like if I think it’ll help break you.”  He grinned.  “I plan to take full advantage of that opportunity.”

“Right.”  Gerard tossed his hair again casually, but Korse saw the nervousness in his face.  “Well, let’s get on with it, all right?  I don’t want to spend a single fucking moment with you longer than I have to.  So do it.”

“All right,” Korse agreed.  “We’ll get on with it.”  He settled himself more comfortably on the chair, bracing his hands on the Killjoy’s knees.  “You are, Gerard, zone-running with your brother, a certain Michael Way, are you not?”

His mouth remained stubbornly shut.  Korse flexed his hand, and then slammed his closed fist into the side of Gerard’s face.  Gerard jerked backwards hard in his chair, his face contorting with pain, but he didn’t make a sound. 

“You’re good,” Korse observed, pleased.  “I supposed you’re used to it.  Most of the others yell a little, at least.  It’s the pills I take, you know—I’m stronger than anyone in the city at this point.  But you didn’t scream.  Well, we’ll change that.”

He smiled wider, placing his hand back on the rebel’s thigh.  “As it happens, Gerard, I already know where Mikey is.  I know where the Doctor is. I know where Frank is, too.  And I know how you feel about each other.”  He paused to observe the effect this comment had on his prisoner, but his features were schooled to neutrality.  So Korse went on.  “I thought your boyfriend—and your brother, for that matter—might like to see what I’m going to be doing to you. 

“So I’m videotaping our little session here.  When we capture them tomorrow, I’ll be able to show them the tape before our meeting.  That way they’ll have sufficient time to prepare.  Sound good to you?”

He paused.  His captive’s teeth were clenched, his eyes fixed on a point above Korse’s left shoulder.  But still he refused to speak.

“There’s more than one camera in this room, if you were wondering.  I’ve installed more than a dozen.  I was struck by inspiration a few months ago, and I’m quite proud of the set-up.  This way I can get all sorts of angles, and I’ll edit them together before showing your friends the finished product.  I’m a very skilled editor, if you'll excuse the vanity.  I took a few film classes in school.  I daresay your friends will be impressed. 

“The thing is, Gerard, this isn’t really an interrogation.  Oh yes, I’m sure you’re surprised.  But as we already have all the information we need, I don’t need much more from you.  No, what I was sent in here to do, Gerard, is to break you.  You’re an intelligent person, and we don’t need you working against us.  So we’ll break you—your spirit, I mean, your body will heal—and then you’ll work for us.  I think you’ll be very useful.  And when you’re a little more, shall I say, compliant, I think quite a few of us on BL/ind will derive some enjoyment from your presence.  So there you have it.  The pressure’s off.  No need to tell us anything.” 

It was terror that Korse saw then in his prisoner’s face.  It disappeared as soon as it had come, but Korse knew what he had seen, and he was glad. 

“Break me, huh?” Poison asked.  His voice shook a little, but as he spoke he regained his bravado.  “You won’t find that too simple, I think.  I don’t break easy.  So take your best shot, you bastard.  I’m ready.”

Korse smiled, holding Poison’s eyes with his own.  He waited until he saw the uncertainty begin to creep back in before he pulled back his fist and slammed him straight in the face.  His head snapped back, but still he did not utter a sound.  Korse hit him again, on the other side this time, reveling in the power of his arms, and then smashed him deep in the solar plexus.  Doubling forward, the rebel at last emitted a tiny groan.

“Save that voice, honey,” Korse advised.  “We’re just getting started.”  Picking up his chair, he swiftly broke each of the rebel’s legs, listening with pleasure to the cracks and to the scream that at last tore from Gerard’s throat.  He was slumped forward now, breathing hard, blood running over his face from his broken nose.  But still he said nothing.

After considering, Korse pulled a small remote from his pocket and, pressing a button, opened the white cuffs binding Gerard to the chair with a snap.  He tugged him forward off the seat, letting him fall to the ground with a groan.  He bent down over him.  “Doing all right, Gerard?” he whispered.  “Need anything?” 

He closed the distance then between his mouth and Gerard’s skin, and bit down hard.  Letting his teeth sink deeper into the white, smooth flesh of his neck, he squeezed harder and harder, feeling the blood beginning to run, until he heard an unmistakable whimper in the back of Gerard’s throat.

Breathing hard, he tore himself away.  It was all he could do not to let himself go, to release every inhibition and utterly, completely destroy this beautiful captive lying before him.  Instead, he began to kick him again and again, wondering at each new, vulnerable spot that opened each time he struck, almost begging for him to continue.  The yells that were now being rhythmically dragged from Gerard’s mouth drove him on, intoxicating.  He heard the crack of a rib, and chose that moment to cease kicking and instead drag the Killjoy to his knees by the hair. 

He was limp, eyes closed, breathing shallow and ragged breaths against Korse’s face.  Korse captured that breath then, crashed his lips savagely against Poison’s bloodstained mouth.  He was in too much pain to resist now, and Korse forced his tongue inside, taking each contour of Poison’s mouth for his own.  With the hand not supporting him, Korse traced his hand down his captive’s body, relishing each fresh gasp when he pressed against a bruise or broken bone, to stroke Gerard’s crotch.

The gasp that came then was more forceful, violent, and Poison somehow found the strength to tear himself away from Korse, landing hard on the floor.  Each breath was labored, and his scarlet hair hung in his face to mix with the blood. 

Korse didn’t hurry.  Even if Gerard were in a condition to attempt it, escape would be impossible.  Instead he approached at a leisurely pace until he was standing once more over Gerard.  Then he knelt, bringing himself down to the other man’s level, and gently brushed Gerard’s hair out of his eyes.  “How’re you feeling, gorgeous?”

Gerard kept his eyes closed, appearing to be concentrating very hard on something.  After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and spat a mixture of blood and saliva into the Exterminator’s face.

Korse wiped it away thoughtfully.  “I see.”

“That’s right,” Poison said hoarsely.

“Hmm.”  Korse sat down and took one of Poison’s hands into his own.  “Perhaps we should talk more.  Would you like that?”

Poison rolled his head away, staring blankly at the ceiling.  Blood decorated the floor in scarlet swathes.

“Good.  All right, Gerard.  Let’s talk about our rather different careers, shall we?  How—well, how do you feel about being a zone-runner, a Killjoy?”

Poison wet his lips with his tongue, pausing a moment.  Finally, his voice weak but steady, he said, “It’s the only thing I want to do in the world.  It’s the only thing I can do.  Because I won’t—I won’t let go of myself.”  He met Korse’s eyes.  “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” Korse said.  “Yes, it does.”  And in one swift motion, he bent Gerard’s pinky finger back until he heard the snap.

The scream that came then was from the deepest part of Gerard, something dredged up from his darkest inner self, something Korse had dragged out into the white, sterilized room.  He felt a dizzying rush of joy at the sound.  As calmly as possible, he inquired, “Is that really how you feel, Gerard?”

***

Gerard fought to control his breath.  He struggled with himself and with the pain in every part of his body before he managed to say, “Yes.”

Korse promptly broke another finger.  A choked groan from his captive.  “Are you sure?”

“What—” He tried to breathe again, but each lungful was agony.  “What is it you want from me?”

“I want to know, Gerard,” Korse answered calmly.  “I want to know how much you really want that foul life, those murderous friends, that _individuality_ you prize so much.  Tell me again, Gerard, how do you really feel?”

Gerard struggled with himself.  More than anything he wanted to sink into the blackness, but there was Korse’s face above him, smiling, a twisted, filthy hate inside of him.  He wanted the pain to stop.  “I—I already told you.”

“I want to hear it again.  I want to hear it from your lips.”

He struggled.  He forced down the fear, the instinctual craving to avoid the pain.  Trying and failing to stop his voice from shaking, he replied, “I stand by what I said.”

There went his middle finger.  The agony, so swift and direct, was a lightening bold in the cloudy darkness swirling in his mind.  Dimly, he was aware of a screaming sound.  Just as dimly, he reasoned that the screamer must be he.  And yet somehow, the shame was gone.  He let his eyes fall shut.  Thought of Mikey.  Of Frank.  Then of Ray, Gracie, and the others.  He wished he were back there with them, roaring through the desert in the Trans Am, blasting music through the fucked-up radio and laughing.

Korse slapped him across the face.  “Stay with me, Gerard.  I need you awake for this.  Now tell me again, how much does that life mean to you?”

He closed his eyes again.  _I won’t give in._ “Everything,” he whispered.  And there came the agony again.  A sort of moaning whimper was building at the back of his throat.  He didn’t have the strength to hold it back.

Korse watched, still holding Gerard’s now-useless hand in his own.  Only the thumb was still unbroken.  Time to move on.  He pulled something from his pocket.  “Look at me, Gerard.”

The blackness was coming again.  Gerard welcomed it, tried to pull himself toward it.  Another sharp slap forced it to dissipate.  “Your eyes, Gerard.  Look at me.”

He dragged his eyes over to Korse’s face.  And then to the knife he held in his hand.

“See this, honey?” Korse asked.  “Looks sharp, doesn’t it?  Well, it is, to a certain extent.  But it’s been a while since I’ve sharpened this thing, and it takes a while now—a while to make its way through skin, flesh, and bone.  So when I relieve you of that thumb, Gerard honey, it won’t be quick.  Let me show you.”  Forcing Poison’s face to the ground, he braced his hand against his forehead and slowly, methodically, carved a deep X in the Killjoy’s cheek.

God no, Poison thought.  The pain wasn’t just pain now—it was attacking from every area of his body, and as Korse opened new gashes in his face, the pain added to the rest and welled up, overflowing, drowning him.  He was sinking, falling into the agony.

“Ready, Gee?” Korse asked from somewhere far above him, and the terror came then, fast and sharp and filling his lungs until he couldn’t breathe.  He tried to wrench his hand away, but he was so weak he doubted Korse even noticed the effort.

Korse laid the knife across the root of his thumb.

“No!” he cried.  He didn’t remember making the decision to say it, as if his body, finally rebelling, had forced out the word without his consent.  But now, as he saw Korse lift the knife and look at him, eyebrow raised, the relief was so intense that he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.

“Did I hear you correctly?” Korse inquired.  “No?  You mean to say you retract your previous statement?”

Shame colored his cheeks, but he was speaking, babbling really.  “Yes, yeah, I didn’t mean it, I do.  Only don’t cut anything off.”

“Hmm,” Korse said.  “Zone-running, after all, isn’t as good as you thought?  The city is better?  BL/ind has it right? You see now that you and your friends are nothing but arrogant, stupid children in trying to run away?”  Gerard nodded yes to each question, his cheeks burning as hot and red as the blood that smeared them.  “And,” Korse continued, “you want me to, what, exactly?”

He looked somewhere, anywhere, away from Korse’s smile.  “Stop,” he said.  “Don’t…don’t hurt me like that.”

“Now, Gerard, that’s not how your mother taught you to ask for things, is it?”

Gerard begged with his eyes, but the smile only widened.  “Please.”

“Please, _what_?”

He drew in a long, shaky, breath, feeling every last piece of his pride crumble like his body.  _Weak.  I am so weak._ “Please…sir.”

“That’s good,” Korse said approvingly.  “I see you have manners after all.  I’d been beginning to doubt it.”

Gerard—that was who he was, after all; Party Poison had died—wished for an end.  He was gone now, he could feel pieces of himself sweeping away and dissolving like earth in a river.  He was disappearing, with nothing remaining but the agony and his overwhelming shame.

“Show me, then,” Korse said suddenly, and there was something new to his voice.  An urgent, animal tone.  “Show me that it’s true.”

Gerard tried to look at him, to find a sign in his face that Korse meant something, anything, other than what the sick feeling in his stomach was telling him.  But suddenly his face was forced hard into the floor, skin skidding on the blood already slicking the tiles.  And Korse was tearing at his clothes, pulling until he was exposed in the cold air, shoving his pants to his ankles and off.  And the buckle, he could hear Korse fumbling at his buckle, his rough, gasping breath.

The ugly sickness spread all through him as Korse forced his fingers inside of him.  He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself somewhere else.  Anywhere else.  Frank’s face flashed into his mind, eyes sad, but he pushed it away then because he was dirty, so broken, now.  He didn’t want Frankie to see him this way.

Something clattered on the floor—a bottle of lotion, rolling away.  He followed it with his eyes, followed its path as it rolled past him and under the chair.  But then the fingers pulled out of him all at once, and the absence made the fear spread suddenly through his body like a scream, and terror like drowning—

Then the ripping, burning intrusion.  All at once the agony was one with the shame, one and the same, and they were both forced into him, splitting the last remnants of his being apart.  Thick black death like ink.  He wanted out of this skin.

An agonized moan tore then from his raw throat and out through his lips.  Above him, Korse said, his voice guttural, “Yeah, that’s right—moan for me, whore—” as he shoved in and out, hard and fast, over and over, and he owned him, it felt as though he belonged to Korse, every filthy inch—God—end it now—

After a while it was over.  Korse lay on top of him, panting, and Gerard realized he was crying. He couldn’t move. 

Korse finally rolled off him.  His voice raspy, he said, “You’re mine now.  You’re a whore.”  And to prove it, he pulled up Gerard’s shirt and carved the word, _whore_ , deep into his skin with the knife.  “Do you understand?” he said, and Gerard did.

He heard Korse standing up, pulling up his pants.  And though he wasn’t looking at him, Gerard knew that a victorious smile was stretching across his face.  Korse kicked him, shoved him into the corner of the room.  “Stay there,” he said, as if there were another option.  “I’ll send someone to collect you soon.”  And he left.

Gerard briefly considered pulling his pants on again, but he abandoned the idea as soon as it came to him.  Any movement at all was impossible.  He could only lie there, eyes shut, waiting.  Hoping against hope Korse had been lying about keeping him.  Hoping for death.

His mind felt strangely detached, almost as if he had ceased to be a person at all, but was instead a current of air sweeping around the colorless room.  Perhaps he would think he was dead already if it weren’t for the agony still filling his body, and the filthy _presence_ that was left from how Korse had taken him.  No, he wasn’t dead, yet.  If only…  He searched with his eyes half-heartedly for any blade or other instrument Korse might have left in the room, but it was useless.  Even if such a tool were available, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to use it.

Instead he closed his eyes and tried to leave his body, to go elsewhere—somewhere in the desert, another day.  Perhaps at an abandoned gas station, filling the tank and keeping a watch out for Dracs.  Perhaps fiddling with the radio in the Trans Am, listening to the shrieks of jubilation from his friends when he found Dr. Death-Defying’s station.  Perhaps in the back room of the Dead Pegasus, the door closed against Gracie and kissing Frank slow and soft.  Running a hand through his hair.

The door slammed open.  Gerard opened his eyes to see two faceless Dracs enter.  He wondered if, beneath those masks, they even registered his condition, or if they cared. 

Approaching him, they each grabbed an arm, hoisting him up.  Gerard unsuccessfully bit back a scream.  As they dragged him to his feet and across the room, Gerard once more let his eyes fall shut.  They pulled his body, too weak to stand, through the door and down the hall.  Their boots thumping rhythmically. 

Behind them, they left Gerard’s scuffed leather pants, crumpled in a messy heap on the shining, stained white floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic torture involving beating, breaking of bones, threats of amputation, and cutting/scarification. Graphic rape. Threat of gang rape/sexual slavery. Relationship between Korse and Gerard Way is entirely non-consensual, and not romantic. Background romantic and sexual relationship between Gerard Way and Frank Iero. Despite the title, no character death, though a brief mention of suicidal ideation.


End file.
